


Mine For the Taking

by theblindtorpedo



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Canon - Movie, Character Study, Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Imbalance, Riding, Topping from the Bottom, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: When one is raised with the world at their feet, being deprived of one singular thing cuts like a shining knife.
Relationships: Archibald Haddock/Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Mine For the Taking

**Author's Note:**

> my friend drew one [Sakharine/Haddock](https://ivanivanovitchsakharine.tumblr.com/post/616205737334538240/im-gonna-drink-myself-to-death) piece and my brain went "brr gaslighting sexy" so this was the effort to purge those brainworms. hope you "enjoy"

For all his blustering Allan had done his job well and while Sakharine had initial doubts about the First Mate’s loyalty, debasing the Captain was a task Allan fulfilled with unexpected fervor. He suspected there was a personal vendetta buried in the weak-chinned man, but frankly he did not care enough to unearth it. Now, Sakharine stands in the doorway to review Allan’s handiwork and lets himself revel in the visceral disgust that bubbles up in him, like too much champagne, both delicious and nauseating. There are numerous bottles knocked to the floor and a layer of accumulated grime interspersed by the shine of sticky dried alcohol. Haddock is slumped over the table, head cradled in one elbow, but turned to gaze forlornly into the depths of a bottle. Sakharine wonders what he sees reflected there: if Haddock fantasizes of himself untainted or if he simply grapples with reality, psychically bludgeoned by his own despicable form.

Sakharine delicately picks his way forward, grimacing, until he stands before the fallen Captain. Ice blue eyes flick up and down again, swirling in disorientation, as if their owner barely recognizes the existence of his visitor. This is as it should be, the Haddock line brought to a nadir for Sakharine’s pleasure, and yet he is not satisfied. There is an itch still snaking its way through his blood, a hideous longing that he must attribute to ancestral obsession, lest he feel shame. He hopes it will be assuaged once he has the treasure. For now it pains him, but he has a clear idea of what will take the edge off.

Perhaps that is why he takes so well to the family grudge. When one is raised with the world at their feet, being deprived of one singular thing cuts like a shining knife.

He grips Haddock’s hair, crusted and odorous, rips hard and Haddock yelps and throws a fist in defense. If it were attached to a sober man, the blow might have dealt serious damage, but Haddock’s aim is off and goes sailing past Sakharine’s ear. He catches Haddock’s wrist with his other free hand and pulls it to his mouth, places a kiss to accelerated pulse, then bites hard. Haddock gasps, but does not push Sakharine away. This is how it always is, Sakharine only has to mark him once, and the old salt gives up the ghost. Sakharine scratches at Haddock’s skull, a patronizing caress in thanks for Haddock playing his part in this still-half finished theater. Good boy.

Haddock shifts his chair back so Sakharine can climb into his lap. He wonders if Haddock knows who he is: this man so out of place on this ship, this man who crawls into his cabin to claim him every night. Sakharine jerks at his tie, sheds his jacket, and Haddock watches with bleary patience, following with hands that grope with uninhibited force. Sakharine would have it no other way; Haddock at least does not treat him like fine china. There was an appeal to being worshiped, he had other lovers who he commanded to do so and enjoyed it immensely, but the thrill of this coupling lay in its roughness. He could not ask anything of Haddock, but he would take with impunity, as was his birthright.

“Oh, what would poor Sir Francis think of you now?” he gasps as Haddock takes to kissing along his shoulder, hands underneath his untucked shirt make Sakharine shiver. Haddock whines in response, all ambiguity. Understanding the question is irrelevant, he will not remember in the morning, and Sakharine can do it all over again. A bolt of arousal courses through him. He starts to rut against Haddock, pulls the Captains’ head up again for a kiss, open mouthed and bruising. Sakharine reaches down to open Haddock’s fly, takes him in hand and pumps him to hardness.

“You’re a dog,” Sakharine hisses, “A lowly, disgusting, depraved good for nothing wretch.“ He punctuates his words with each movement of his hand, just on the verge of too tight, so that tears spring at the corners of Haddock’s eyes.

Sakharine likes his food ever so slightly poisoned.

Haddock is moaning now, small exclamations of ‘fuck,’ escaping from his mouth, and that won’t do. If the crew finds him, Sakharine knows there would be no coming back from the humiliation, but even that danger spikes his lust. He claps a hand over Haddock’s mouth, stands up so he can inelegantly shove off his trousers with the other, before sinking down onto the Captain’s cock. He’d prepared himself before visiting, and in another situation he might feel shame for the whorishness of it, but how could he feel the worse, when Haddock was trembling and already thrusting so readily. Animal indeed.

It feels divine and Sakharine would argue it wasn't really fair for Haddock to be blessed with such a fantastic cock, if he were not currently using it like a toy to stir his recesses until he was quaking. Here Sakharine releases the part of him that moralizes this, the part that tells him he is owed the pleasure of Haddock’s sex, and instead he lets himself be overcome as he rides Haddock for all his worth, making sure each slap of his hips sends shudders through the other man, pushing him down so that chair shrieks in protest.

Haddock won’t last long, not with his self-control obliterated by the drink. Sometimes he comes first and Sakharine has to use his mouth, but this time it will be Sakharine, dripping in sweat, pre-cum, and selfishness, who comes hard between them, head thrown back and growling in triumph through gritted teeth. Immediately, he lifts off, goes to wipe between his legs before pulling his clothes back on.

Haddock reaches out, strokes his face with unbecoming softness for a man who is still hard, and leans slowly to kiss him. Sakharine hopes it is by instinct, not out of any deluded affection. A dirty, fabricated sort of love, he cannot abide even that. The embrace is returned with a sharp slap. The look of pain across Haddock’s reddened face is pitiful. Sakharine is glad Haddock did not reach orgasm this time; he doesn’t deserve it, not when he subjects Sakharine to these desperate grabs for connection.

“You’re going so soon?” Haddock asks.

“As if I would be caught dead in this miserable hole of a cabin.“ Haddock hangs his head. “At least we are in agreement,” Sakharine sneers. He has a brief moment of regret that Haddock will forget, for wouldn’t that sting, to realise the man claiming your family’s inheritance is the same one who fucked and used you so carelessly. He’d like to see Haddock sober and clear-eyed for once, just for that moment. Alas, Sakharine has to be practical. 

He knots his tie, smooths his jacket down, and pivots. He will leave Haddock like this, fly-open, Sakharine’s cum staining the edge of that blue sweater. Later he’s certain he’ll hear snippets of Allan cursing the Captain’s indecency and he will make sure to give his cufflinks one extra polish, presenting as the put together, superior aristocrat. All the better to win the crew’s loyalty. So, in the end, his vice does serve to further his goal.

He must head back to Marlinspike tonight, they will surely have stolen the boy’s ship by now, and another scroll will be in his grasp. He is so close he can taste it as clearly as the second-hand whiskey on his tongue.

Ivan Ivanovitch Sakharine gets what he wants.

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah
> 
> tell me what you think if you like
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](www.augustinremi.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](www.twitter.com/seccotines).


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